Construction

The Man and I are insane.
Certifiably so.
Starting when the weather warms, we will be building onto our house.
We will not be hiring people to build on.
We will be doing it ourselves in true Tim Taylor fashion.
Grunt, grunt.
Now, my husband and I are not exactly novices. He was a brick/stone/whatever mason for years, and I'm a construction brat.
Meaning, I know how to hang sheetrock and which end of a hammer to hold up when I throw it at my husband. Which I'm sure I will do at least once with great gusto.
Basically, in laymans terms, we will have a nice new addition a to our home to increase property value while we're divying it up in the divorce brought on by this particular project.
My neighbors will be treated to the sight of me reaming my husband for some boneheaded move out in our yard as he concentrates on ignoring me with all his might.
They already know to expect a show. Twice, about eight months pregnant, I have lost my temper with our Giant Schnauzer and they have been greeted with the sight of me sitting on my dog, holding his head, and yelling curses at him.
They just laugh about it now.
So I figure we might as well make it good entertainment as we build a new bedroom and our marriage deconstructs.
And I figure they'll come out to talk to our kids as they are hanging from a beam, either nailed there by their father in an attempt to keep them out of trouble or dangling off of it because the days not complete without a parental caridac arrest.
I'm think about selling tickets to my circus freak of a life.
It should be worth a few bucks to watch a family deconstruct in a fashion Roseanne only dared dream of.